


Well-Earned Frivolity

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort - Character isn't used to being loved and shown tenderness/affection, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg - Accidental pregnancy after thinking character was unable to get pregnant, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Pregnancy - Unplanned Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-12-22 21:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21083315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: For twenty years, Patro has been the head of Prince Detierre's security detail. Ever the professional, he has only given in to the Prince's charms once.Once was enough.





	Well-Earned Frivolity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tentacledicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentacledicks/gifts).

Patro slipped into the shadows of Prince Detierre's office with the utter certainty that he was going to be fired.

Twenty years. He'd been standing tall and sturdy at the Smiling Prince's side for twenty years, first taking his place there when the both of them were barely seventeen. For fifteen of those twenty, he'd been at the helm of Detierre's security detail, through war and wounds and shockingly early knighthood, through Detierre's mischief and debauchery. Always, Patro had stayed watchful and steady, an unwavering and, on more than one occasion, tempering presence. Now, one mistake the both of them were too damn old for would cost him all of it.

The babes moved in Patro's belly, vigorously, as though they were beating each other. He dipped deeper into the shadowy corner alcove he favored, taking advantage of its concealment while his belly was still small enough for it. Skirting around the portrait of King Filpartte the Beloved First nearby was second nature, though the way both king and dragon seemed to stare accusingly at him was new. Their gazes followed him as he let his weary and overheated body rest against a stone wall as cold as the relentless winter outside, the late King's golden mage's eyes and the dragon's fire blue ones glaring down at him as he rubbed at his rounded middle.

Of course it disapproved. He was carrying the King's great grandchildren out of both matehood _and_ wedlock. But it was merely a painting, a shadow of the wizened old man who'd never cared much for him in life.

Patro sighed and focused on keeping his moving hand out of view. It would not do for the leader of the prince's guard to be caught showing any sort of discomfort, to be seen rubbing his distended belly to calm agitated children. And while it might have been too late to do anything about his terrible lapse in professionalism and judgment, he could—at the very least—mitigate some of the damage.

Not for much longer. His attempts at maintaining discretion were going to fall apart soon. His belly was growing fast—full with twins, the healers said, when he visited them about the strange sensations in his abdomen. Already several months gone. The Great Curse had been broken during the War, and this was the result. 

For now, his growth could be dismissed as a simple paunch, the type even the fittest of soldiers and guards were sporting in this time of plenty, now that the Second War of the Mages was done. But his condition would become glaringly obvious in the blink of an eye.

The time had come for him to tell Detierre and face his fate.

Alpha and omega. People had said this partnership of theirs would not work since the beginning—Filpartte the First, advisors, guards and commoners and everyone. All but King Filpartte the Venerable Second, Detierre, and Patro himself decried the idea of an omega guarding an alpha.

_Urges follow nature, and action follows urges_ was the adage. An omega and an alpha could not work so closely together for so long without someone succumbing to their "baser instincts." It was a simple fact, people said. Science. A pair that shared bonds with none would slip, always. The omega would go into heat, the alpha would "partake of the lush pleasures of the body," and that would be that. It was as inevitable as the passage of time.

For so many years, he and Detierre both had regarded such claims as nonsense. They could not share sleeping quarters so often? How ridiculous. They could not take their meals together so often? Absurd. They could not undress around each other or handle the other ordinary tasks of guardian and charge without issues? They could not live in each others pockets for twenty years without trouble? They were grown men, not teenagers or animals, and while Detierre was prone to salacious and improper acts of frivolity, Patro certainly was not.

But someone would slip, people said. Someone always slipped. Every last person had heard this story before. The more the alpha and the omega protested that it was impossible, the more likely it would be that someone would make a mistake.

Damn it all, they were right.

At his desk, Detierre laughed at something his advisor Andrick said, a light and musical sound that carried across the vast room. It was his fake laugh, but few recognized it as such. Patro did. He was familiar with the tightness in its tone, could tell that it was forced. But he did not have the stomach for Detierre's laughter today, even if it was feigned. He was too tired, too queasy to tolerate such things, and yet tolerate he must.

This pregnancy was going to ruin everything he held dear—the life he'd so carefully crafted, the friendship he silently cherished. He knew how this situation looked, had seen it play out countless times: Someone who was unwed, unbonded, and either with child or already a parent would claim a royal had fathered or mothered their child. The vast majority were lying, like the beta woman who'd claimed Detierre's younger, secret omega brother had—quite impossibly—fathered her son.

Like Patro's own mother had done.

Greed, the desire to grant their child a better life—they all had their reasons. Patro's mother claimed to be motivated by the latter, though, considering her dubious capacity for motherhood, Patro had his doubts. She'd been banished from nearby Alizarin for attempting to trick the king into claiming Patro as his son when Patro was but a newborn, and everyone knew of it. Dear Gods, what would Detierre think when Patro told him of the pregnancy?

Patro ran his free hand over his face in frustration. Damn it all, he shouldn't have even been pregnant. It had been nearly a century since the last omega male in Viridian had carried. A curse upon the kingdom and all who chose to live there—The Great Curse, placed during the First War. _The womb of no man of the secondary configuration Omega shall ever carry or bear fruit again in Viridian_. Yet there Patro was, heavy with child—with children—and putting further emphasis on the "heavy" part with each passing day.

Detierre dismissed Andrick with his trademark smile, a sweet and elegant curve of lush pink lips and even white teeth that went straight to the ache in Patro's heart and twisted like a blade. For years—so many years—he'd resisted the pull of that smile, not even letting himself laugh at Detierre's jokes most of the time. It would have been improper for a guard and a knight to do otherwise, and he'd always suspected that, if he gave in, it would be his undoing.

That, naturally, had meant that Detierre increased his efforts to make Patro crack a smile. It always seemed to delight him so when Patro could not suppress his mirth. But that was a very rare occurrence indeed. Patro used to be quite good at resistance, almost as good as he was at his job. Few in Viridian were immune to Detierre's charms. Most would have said that Patro was among that vanishingly small number before.

Before. These days, well. He wouldn't have been swollen with children if that were true, would he?

Andrick was not immune, either. He ducked his head and blushed, his blond curls falling into his handsome, pinking, punch-worthy face. One of his hands landed on Detierre's arm in an unmistakably fond touch. In an instant, Patro was nearly out of his alcove, instincts on high alert, ready to remove that hand. He caught himself and retreated. Tiny Andrick was hardly a threat—Detierre could snap the man like a twig if necessary, and Detierre was not a large warrior like Patro. But old habits and all that. All it would take was a tug of a hand around that twig of a wrist, or the sharp and shining point of a blade...

Detierre ducked easily away from the touch and turned his attention to straightening the mess of papers on his desk—mostly there for show, Patro knew. _"The more they underestimate you, the more effective you can be,"_ Detierre always said, and he always did have a head for paperwork and business.

Andrick recognized the dismissal for what it was, and his pretty face fell. Shoulders slumped, he made a rapid retreat, not even sparing a glance toward Patro's alcove.

He was the only one who didn't notice Patro's presence. Far too soon, Detierre's smile was directed at Patro's corner, wide and vibrant and genuine. "Patro, my darling!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together, and Patro clenched his jaw against his own threatening smile. Even with his present ill temper, Detierre's honest delight did not fail to spawn a pleased warmth in Patro's stomach. But their mutual joy would be short-lived, Patro was certain. "Or am I speaking with shadows again?"

He had delayed this conversation with Detierre for long enough. Patro took a deep, fortifying breath, and replied, "Just the one shadow this time, your highness," and took his first step forward.

"Oh, good!" Detierre's impossible grin somehow grew as Patro came closer, feeling like he was being led by the weight of his belly as he moved. With a tight smile of his own, Patro approached the stately mahogany desk, while Detierre said, "You are just the shadow I was hoping to see."

Before Patro could utter a customary—and completely unnecessary, but habits were habits—greeting and bow, Detierre was off, gushing about the next ball he was hosting, a fortnight away but swiftly approaching. Nodding along, Patro sank down in the chair beside the one Andrick had vacated, suppressing a relieved sigh as the plush cerulean velvet embraced his body.

It was difficult to focus on Detierre as much as duty required—and as much as Detierre deserved. Usually, Patro found Detierre's enthusiasm enchanting, and he could listen to Detierre babble about anything for hours, albeit while wearing a mask of gruffness and impatience.

These days, Detierre's energy was wearying. Patro's head hurt. His body hurt, his hips and his back, and even his abdominal muscles and scars aching in ways that were utterly unfamiliar to him. The babies moved relentlessly, quarreling in his gut, and the malaise of pregnancy writhed with them, entwining with the churning weight of dread.

Had he given much thought to the condition before he became afflicted, he suspected he would have assumed he'd be immune to the rigors of pregnancy, with his broad frame and formidable strength. He was built like the warrior he was, and was in excellent physical health. But pregnancy spared no one its ills, it seemed.

When he could indulge Detierre's excited chatter and occasional innuendo about balls no longer, he said, mildly, "Actually, your highness, I was hoping to speak with you about another matter."

Detierre's mouth hung open for a moment, comically wide, before he snapped it shut. He flashed Patro a sheepish smile, and said, "How many times have I told you to simply wallop me about the head when I start off on my loquacious flights of fancy?" He gave Patro a small, seated bow. "Apologies, my dearest Patro. What do you wish to speak to me about?"

Now that he had Detierre's attention, it felt as though all capacity for speech deserted Patro. He swallowed hard around the tight lump in his throat, and tried to think of what to say. Bluntness was his forte, not delicacy, and pregnancy was a delicate matter indeed. Hand him a blunt weapon or a blade, and he would excel in a situation. Hand him a dictionary, however, and he would be best served by using it as a cudgel.

But, this time, he had to make an attempt. "Detierre," he finally said, "we have ourself a bit of a problem."

"Oh." Detierre's gold eyes widened. Patro rarely called him Detierre. "So, this is a matter regarding the both of us, then?" He gestured expansively between the two of them. "Shall I close the door?"

"I think that would be wise, yes."

Propriety and safety dictated that Patro be the one to handle such tasks, but Detierre was out of his seat before Patro could try, far more light on his feet than Patro these days. Still, Patro kept a hand on the hilt of one of his many daggers and a close eye on his friend and charge, watching the easy movement of Detierre's long, slender legs with a small spark of envy and a much larger one of longing.

Detierre looked exceptional today. He'd shed his indigo velvet frock coat, but the matching silk waistcoat with intricate gold brocade still clung to his body, its color well-suited to his complexion and the shape of the garment showing off the shape of his lean body perfectly. They were Patro's favorite members of Detierre's extensive, colorful wardrobe, and it pained Patro to see Detierre in them on what could easily be the last day of their acquaintance.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut, the sound echoing with a jarring finality in the small room, followed by the deep and clanking click of the lock. Patro didn't flinch, trained to avoid such actions, but Detierre jumped at each.

"There we go," Detierre said. "Privacy. And—where are my manners?" He darted toward the side table where his magic kettle sat, ever hot and filled with water. Thinking of moving so swiftly in this condition made Patro's back twinge. Another mark in favor of his impending termination. If he could no longer guard Detierre adequately...

"Would you care for some tea?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Detierre paused mid-step, and said, "Very well," and easily changed course for his desk, absently trailing his fingertips over the colorful woven tapestries on the walls—Detierre had a habit of stroking the walls with the tips of his fingers as he walked that nothing could break. His fingers skimmed along the spines of the well-loved books on the cases behind his desk, over glass trinkets and shimmering spellware and the vast assortment of unnamed things he'd horded like his dragons over the years.

Many of those trinkets were from Patro, slipped into Detierre's sizable collection whenever Detierre was out. Globes made of shining brass, animal and plant figurines made of delicate spun glass, iridescent orbs of permanent ice, other inexpensive yet beautiful novelties Patro found while patrolling the local markets. Any fragile bauble that reminded him of something Detierre liked, he bought.

Somehow, the newest ones always found their way to a prominent part of the display.

Detierre sat down primly upon his blue wingback chair, favoring Patro with an inquisitive stare that would've left a less-trained man squirming, and did leave Patro throwing up every mental wall in his arsenal, though Detierre was not that sort of mage. After a moment, Detierre tilted his head with avian curiosity, sending a lock of long brown hair that had escaped its queue falling into his face, like it often did. Patro was tempted to tuck it behind Detierre's ear, and lifted his hand, but Detierre got to it first.

Then, with an expression of sympathy, Detierre asked, "Now, then—what has you looking as though someone has just tread upon your grave?"

There was no putting off the conversation now, Patro supposed. "We've never discussed—" _Oh, how should he put this?_ he wondered. "—that night. When you helped me with my time."

Detierre's frown deepened. "Of course we've not discussed it," he said. "You seemed so discomfited by the incident, and you've hardly said a personal word to me since that night. I've merely been respecting your usual extreme level of privacy."

Patro's heart briefly swelled with gratitude at that. He'd never wanted to discuss the incident. It would've been too improper, too painful. Rarely did he ever spend a heat with someone, preferring instead to lock himself away somewhere with only himself and some enchanted devices for company. But it had been a particularly brutal one that night, and the devices failed to satisfy him. Only an alpha would do, and he'd only ever wanted one alpha.

It had been a lapse in judgment. A glorious, pleasurable lapse in judgment, but a lapse nonetheless.

Detierre gave him a considering look. "_Should_ we have discussed it?"

"Regrettably, yes," Patro said. And before Detierre could make any assumptions about carnal diseases, Patro pressed a hand to the bulge of his belly, causing an onslaught of kicks to his palm. Detierre's eyes widened. "A discussion has become rather...urgent, your highness."

"I thought for certain it was a post-War belly," Detierre said. He sounded shaken, stunned. "Everyone seems to be sporting one these days, and I didn't want to be rude. But the healers did say that a male omega was...goodness, Patro, are you..."

"I'm with child, yes." He looked down, and ran his hand over his belly. The hand looked so large resting upon it, dwarfing the swell that had popped out so suddenly, protecting the babes within. How did something that felt so large look so small beneath his own touch? No matter. He went on, adding, "Or perhaps 'with children' would be more accurate, according to the healers."

He met Detierre's wide-eyed stare with a rueful grimace. "I saw all of the healers in the kingdom, and a few outside it. I'm carrying."

"'Children,'" Detierre repeated, voice quavering. "You said 'children.'"

"Indeed," Patro said. "The healers all said it was impossible for a man dwelling in Viridian to be pregnant. Each of those same healers says that there are two children growing in my belly now."

At a particularly strong kick to his hand, Patro amended, "Or battling within it, rather," earning the tiniest huff of laughter from Detierre.

Then, defiant, he met Detierre's stunned gaze head-on. "I don't know what else to tell you, I'm afraid. Somehow, the Great Curse was broken, and I have become pregnant with twins. And they are yours."

A series of complicated expressions flitted across Detierre's expressive face, all variants of shock. Ultimately, he settled on wonder, as he repeated, "Twins," voice barely over a whisper. "Twins. There's not been an omega male pregnancy in Viridian in our lifetimes, and yet you...twins. You. Us. Twins."

"Indeed," Patro said. "The Gods have seen fit to bless me twice over, it seems."

"Twins. There are two..." Detierre's mouth hung open, and he stared at Patro, his golden eyes huge. "I can hardly fathom...we are having twins."

_We?_ That one simple word turned Patro into the one who was staring in disbelief, astounded. One tiny word—_we_. Not _you_ are having twins? Not a vehement denial, not a question of the children's co-paternity. And yet Patro still felt the need to emphasize it. "They are yours," he repeated. "There have been no others."

"Of course they're mine," Detierre said, with great smugness and his usual bravado. "Who else could accomplish this?" Then, with more gentleness, more sincerity, he added, "And you'd not be looking so spooked if you were carrying another man's children, and you wouldn't...you are one of the few who would not try to mislead me in such a way."

Patro's eyebrows shot up. "You think—"

"Your loyalty and honesty have always been your most beautiful qualities," Detierre said. "I've not questioned either before, and I'm not about to start now."

"But my mother—"

"I laid with you, not your mother." Detierre's expression turned sad. "Twenty years, my darling Patro. Except when playing cards, not once have you ever given me cause to believe you are a liar. I do wish you would extend the same level of trust to me." His face gentled. "We shall have to work on that, I suppose."

Chastened, Patro briefly averted his eyes, then made an attempt to deflect the blow, "You are terrible at cards, Detierre."

"Lies," Detierre said, dryly. "Lies and falsehoods and slander." Slowly, a wistful smile spread across Detierre's face. "I was starting to think I'd never have children," he quietly added.

"I know." They'd had that conversation before, many times, stretching out across late nights spent drinking in quiet companionship or huddled within their shared tent on cold battlefields. Detierre was handsome, charming, beloved by the kingdom of Viridian and most others, save for their rivals. With the flash of a smile or a beckoning curl of a finger, Detierre could have anyone he wanted.

The trouble was, Detierre wanted none of them. So many suitors had come and gone over the past twenty years. None of them caught Detierre's eye. It had gotten to the point that his oft-repeated _"I'm not getting any younger"_ had lost its whimsy, and King Filpartte was starting to grow feeble—and incredibly cross with his heirless first son.

The first shimmers of silver had started to appear in Detierre's brown hair recently, Patro had noticed, much like the greys in his own short, black hair and thick eyebrows. There were faint new crinkles at the corners of Detierre's honey-colored eyes, and he had taken to wearing large, round spectacles when devouring his vast cache of literature.

No, they weren't getting any younger, were they?

"I've long felt as though the Gods would never introduce me to a person I'd wish to call my family," Detierre said. "And the one man I might, well...he was unavailable." Detierre sighed heavily. Then, he smiled. "And now here he is. Carrying my babies, against all the odds."

Patro's heart skipped a series of beats. _Here he is._ "Me?"

"Have I suddenly turned into Tierstyne of Ochre?" Detierre rolled his eyes, his smile still fond, and got up from his seat. Patro couldn't help a small huff himself. Last year, they'd been called to distant Ochre to attend Prince Tierstyne's lavis wedding to himself. "Or is there someone else who's carrying my children in this room that I should know about?"

"No," Patro said. "No one else."

"Good." Detierre sat in the chair next to Patro, drawing it closer, and reached for Patro's belly, the cream lace of his shirtsleeve spilling over his hand. His palm hovered before the small swell, trembling, and Patro imagined he could feel the warmth radiating from it through his thin black tunic. "Are they kicking now, my darling?"

"Always," Patro replied, with a wry smile. It was somehow easier to talk about the babies than this thing between him and Detierre, this thing that left Detierre's hand shaking and his own heart racing. "It's how I first learned of my condition, actually—those kicks.

"And I've not gotten a moment's respite since the quickening. When one seems to settle, the other starts to move—and then it seems as though they start to fight with each other. There have been more skirmishes within my belly than I've seen on some battlefields."

Detierre let out a soft, nervous laugh. Dampness was starting to gather in his eyes, making them shine. "Would you permit me to feel them skirmish?"

For a moment, Patro was tempted to refuse, out of some sudden urge to protect the children inside him. But Detierre would not harm them. Patro was being foolish.

"Of course." Patro's hand shook as well as he removed it from his belly, and used it to guide Detierre's hand into place. His hand was slimmer than Patro's, his fingers long and elegant, not thick and crooked and scarred weapons like Patro's. Patro had always liked Detierre's hands. "They're your children as well, Detierre. You've no need to ask permission."

"My children," Detierre said, with great awe. "All right, then." He curved his hand against Patro's belly, a soft weight that was immediately greeted by a flurry of movement. Detierre let out a small, delighted laugh, and gave Patro the brightest, most honest smile Patro had ever seen on his face, before looking at Patro's belly again.

"Oh, goodness," Detierre said, more breath than speech, as tiny feet and fists collided with his palm. He started to slide his hand over Patro's belly, slow and reverent, following the shape of it and the motion of the children within. "This is incredible." It was such a careful touch, such a gentle, tender one. Patro's eyes began to sting and water, and his throat knotted with a tight, clenching ache that only worsened when Detierre said, in that same breathy tone, "These are our children."

"They are," Patro said, barely managing more than a whisper. Oh, Gods, when he'd imagined how this conversation would go, he'd never imagined this. There was supposed to be fighting, an argument, recriminations. He was supposed to be fired the moment he uttered the words, _I'm with child_. Despite years of kindness and friendship, Detierre was supposed to want nothing to do with their children, was supposed to accuse him of lying, was supposed to banish him and throw him to the wolves.

Patro did not know what to do with tenderness.

He tried to regain control of himself, taking a deep, slow breath and dabbing at the wet corners of his eyes with his sleeves, but pregnancy had left his emotions in a rather precarious state. There'd been a time when he knew for certain that his capacity for crying had been beaten out of him by the brutal life of a soldier. But his eyes were wet, and they only grew wetter as Detierre's hand moved so kindly over his belly, as Detierre talked to the children inside, introducing himself as their Papa, promising them the world, telling them he already loved them.

Patro wiped his eyes again.

Detierre had only ever treated him with kindness. There was a reason he cared so much for Detierre, why he was more than ready to lay down his life for Prince Detierre of Viridian. It had nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the man.

Detierre had never raised a hand in anger toward Patro. He'd never aimed a weapon at Patro, or wielded that secretly sharp tongue like a blade against Patro's throat. And he'd never been truly unkind to others, either. Detierre was a good man.

Surely Detierre had proven it by now. Patro was especially reminded of it when Detierre's hand found one of the many scars on his belly, his fingers pausing upon it. Both knew what it was from—the time Patro's loyalty had almost been the death of him. He'd stepped between Detierre and a blade and wound up impaled upon it, the sword brutally piercing his guts clean through and scratching Detierre's abdomen on its exit.

The damage to his internal organs had been tremendous, made worse by the terrible infection that followed. He'd never been as close to dying as he was in those days, before or since. And not once did Detierre leave his side. For all those countless, endless days spent writhing in fever and pain, Detierre had been there.

He'd sponged the sweat from Patro's skin, applied poultices, changed dressings on Patro's wounds. He'd brought Patro to his luxurious bed and shared it, refusing to go far out of fear of loss. He'd read to Patro, even when Patro was too incoherent to understand, his eloquent voice uncharacteristically tremulous as he brought the poems and novels to life.

When Patro suggested replacing him, when he was at his weakest—that was the only time Detierre had ever raised his voice to him in anger.

He wondered if Detierre was thinking of the same thing as his fingers trailed over the scar. It wasn't the biggest on Patro's body, nor the ugliest. Just a simple little line from an unnaturally sharp blade, only a few centimeters long, barely felt through fabric. But it was a profoundly important wound.

He _was_ doing Detierre a great discourtesy by not trusting him, wasn't he?

But Detierre was nothing if not forgiving. After a while, he smiled up at Patro, and said, "I don't suppose you'd be interested in becoming my husband and mate, would you, dearest? I know that the night we shared was merely convenient, but I—"

"Merely convenient?" Patro asked, his voice ragged. "Had I been seeking convenience that night, I would have hired an alpha. I chose to lie with a trusted friend—with someone I hold in high regard."

"A friend," Detierre said, an odd, hollow note in his tone that Patro couldn't place immediately. When he did, his heart missed a beat again.

Disappointment. Was Detierre disappointed at being thought of as a friend? Could Patro dare to hope for that?

"I thought it best if I pretended I felt only friendship for you," Patro admitted. "It would not have been proper for me to have accepted your offer if I'd wished we were lovers, and my acceptance was very improper indeed."

"Improper?" Detierre let out a laugh. "My darling, I've always _thrived_ on on shamelessly shameful impropriety. Have you not noticed?" His free hand went to Patro's damp cheek, palm warm and soft against Patro's rough skin. "All those nights you've hoisted me over your shoulder and carried me away from glorious debauchery, and you've not noticed?"

"Oh, I've certainly noticed," Patro said. "But I didn't think that impropriety extended toward me."

"And I never suspected that sort of impropriety would be extended toward me from you. We're a couple of silly old fools, aren't we?" Detierre shook his head in amusement. "But I daresay we've both earned a little frivolity, wouldn't you agree? After the War and all.

"Besides, if you think you are truly 'improper' for these feelings, I have you beat: I've carried a particularly large torch for you since the day Father led you through that door and introduced you as my new bodyguard."

"Truly?" Patro asked.

"How could I not? I am a champion of impropriety, and you always have been unfairly handsome. Those big hands of yours, those dimples, those blue eyes, those eyelashes..."

"Eyelashes?" Patro furrowed his brow, confused.

"Eyelashes," Detierre repeated. "Your lashes are the talk of all the ladies in the court. I suspect if they could stab you to death and steal them for themselves, a great number of them would."

That broke Patro from his melancholy, and had him chuckling in disbelief. "Well. That's..."

"It's bizarre, I know, but true." Then, ducking closer, Detierre whispered, in a confidential tone, "They also speak rather reverently of your rear end. As do I."

Patro snorted. "That makes a great deal more sense."

"It is _delightful_. So round and firm..." Detierre patted Patro's cheek. "You are wickedly attractive, and I adore you immensely, and I have adored you immensely for a very long time."

Since they were admitting such things, Patro felt it best to add, "And I've had feelings for you since at least the third year of our acquaintance."

"The third?" Detierre repeated. "What—the werewolf incident."

"The werewolf incident," Patro confirmed, with a nod. "Jonpreia." Detierre had a great passion for rescuing wounded animals and nursing them back to health. One night, he came across a blind and limping dog. The next morning, that dog was a woman named Jonpreia. Ten years later, Jonpreia was the Chief of Staff of Viridian's first-of-its-kind Lycanthrope Guard.

And few would let Detierre live down rescuing a werewolf and treating her—however briefly—like a pup.

Detierre's smile widened. "Marry me," he said. "Bond with me. Let's bond and wed and raise children and dogs together—actual dogs, not werewolves. Let's be silly old fools together."

"It will cause a great scandal," Patro said, and placed a hand over the one on his belly, "though that has never been of much importance to you, has it?"

"Never, never," Detierre agreed. "Though any in this kingdom who thinks it's a terrible shock has not been paying attention."

"They deserve to be startled," Patro said.

"Indeed." Detierre sighed melodramatically and shook his head. "Poor ol' Andrick. Whatever will he do?"

"He'll be heartbroken."

"And then he'll find someone new." Detierre smiled again. "Like I found you."

Patro chuckled. "You keep rhyming."

"I've heard poets are quite alluring," Detierre said. "I'm hoping to woo you. Am I succeeding?"

"Well, you are certainly no great poet like Florentra or Orone...but I'm carrying your children," Patro pointed out. "I think that may mean you've already succeeded."

"Yes, but you've not yet agreed to wed me or bond with me, and I'd quite like it if you changed that." He leaned in, lips close to brushing Patro's. Patro could smell the tea on Detierre's breath, the fragrance heady and strong and sweet, cinnamon and clove, soft vanilla, tart orange, the most potent black tea. Detierre's mouth would taste of it, as it had that night—stronger with the heightened senses of pregnancy, and just as intriguing.

"I'm not being silly, my darling Patro. I've wanted you to be mine, and I've wanted to be yours, for a very long time." The warmth of his words brushed Patro's lips. "Please do this. Marry me. Bond with me. It would bring me greater joy than you can even imagine. Please."

It was madness. Sheer, utter madness. They'd not been courting each other—all they'd done was share a bed. Except, no, that wasn't true at all, was it? They'd shared something far greater: a history. For two decades, they'd been inseparable, learning each other's darkest secrets as Patro protected Detierre and Detierre helped steer Viridian through the Second War.

For so long, they'd treated each other as equals, not as bodyguard and prince, nor alpha and omega. They were Patro and Detierre—only Patro and Detierre, and now Patro and Detierre and their two unborn children.

And there was no one Patro wanted as much as Detierre.

"Yes," Patro finally said. "Yes, I'll be yours, you utter madman." Then he pressed his rough, thin lips to Detierre's soft, lush ones, and savored the heady sweetness of his fiance's smile on his tongue.

Unlike their last kiss, which was shared in the frantic chaos of heat, this one was tender and sweet. It was the culmination of that history, twenty years distilled into the precious joining of their mouths. Slow, quiet, and easy, they moved against each other, learning the shape of each other's happiness, the taste of something new that didn't feel new at all.

Patro's hand slid up Detierre's body, finding its proper place at the back of his head, mussing his queue of brown hair and guiding the path of his lips. A pleased sound escaped from Detierre's throat, and Patro swallowed it down eagerly, matching it with something joyous of his own.

It was like something profoundly out of place had been set to rights, like something that made perfect sense had been set into motion with the warmth spreading from Patro's lips through his blood, with the simple and delicious pleasure of kissing the sweetened tea from Detierre's tongue, of chasing the pure taste of him hiding underneath. Patro's breath fled from his lungs, stolen by Detierre's mouth, replaced by Detierre's air.

Yes, this made sense. Everything made sense now.

Even the babes seemed to notice, their riotous movement shifting into something sedate and gentle. Or perhaps Patro's attention was simply elsewhere, his mind too consumed with the hot sharing of joy as he gave Detierre the kiss he deserved and was kissed thoroughly in return. Who could focus on the now-normal kicking in their belly when they were faced with something so wondrously unfamiliar yet simultaneously familiar?

Had he and Detierre kissed like this the night they mated, they never would have separated. Patro would have bonded with him without hesitation, with the utter unwavering certainty that this was good, this was right. This was the way their world was supposed to be, the two of them kissing each other and loving each other and devoted to each other.

This thing between them, this act of well-earned frivolity would, without question, work.

When they parted, another thought occurred to Patro. "So, I suppose this means I'm not fired, then?"

Detierre's laughter was the best answer Patro could have been given.


End file.
